Coming out
by I'm Nova
Summary: Birthday fic for TakedaEmo120, my dear friend. She asked for Vamplock. I hope this silliness is acceptable. Vampire Sherlock coming out to his beloved flatmate. Fluff and smut with a dash of angst because I can't help myself, sorry about that.


Coming out

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing. A.N. Happy birthday Kim! And many many happy returns. I hope you will like this story!_

For someone whose work – or better said, life calling – was to uncover the truth like Sherlock, it was almost physically painful to have an existence entirely built on lies. But you know what they say. Needs must when the devil drives. He'd lied all his life – been different all his life, even before he changed – and survival instinct made him swallow back the truth every time it wanted to come out. With John, though…it was so hard to lie to John.

Then again, no matter how surprisingly accepting the man had been of body parts in the fridge and violin at the wee hours of the night, being told that yes, supernatural creatures existed, and his flatmate could vouch for that being, you know, a vampire himself was bound to be a shock. And probably the one thing that drove his friend out of the flat if one of his long list of girlfriends did not manage to snatch him away before that.

More than once Sherlock had been tempted to use his enthralling powers to turn his John away from some dull woman who thought she was worth enough to become the doctor's partner, but to this day, he'd managed to resist the urge. Once you started messing with people's psyche it was hard to stop, nevermind that you could never predict every side effect. And he didn't want John to change. He didn't want John to like him because he was literally mesmerised.

He wanted to – really, it was more like he _needed_ to – have his flatmate's honest fondness. Which he did, for some arcane, incomprehensible reason. Sure, he could charm people if he put in the effort – supernatural powers aside, he knew how to manipulate feelings. He had a long time to learn and at least one excellent teacher. But he had not laboured or faked to go along with John. He'd been himself (well…mostly himself) and somehow that had led to "amazing" and giggles instead of "freak" and glares.

Was it any wonder that the sleuth wanted to keep his friend? Surely even monsters, as anyone who realized his nature would deem him, had the right to one good thing in their life. (No, no, he knew he was wrong – he didn't have any _right_ to John. He certainly didn't _deserve_ John. But that didn't mean that he could help yearning for him.)

And talking about yearning…oh, no, forget it. He wasn't going to, and that's all there was to say on the matter. He wasn't going to sample John. Sure, he could do so and then wipe his memory out, but what have we been saying till now about messing with people's brain? Not on. Besides, Sherlock knew himself. He would not be able to limit himself to only the once. He'd get addicted, and everything between the two of them would crumble. You know how you don't get addicted to something? You don't start. You don't touch it, even once.

Never mind that he now knew intimately how good old Tantalus had felt. He'd always been very practical about feeding, trying to keep things to a minimal fuss, and carefully not letting any other instincts but sheer hunger make his choice of meal for him. Like any other predator, he kept to the weak, unprotected prey – and he never actually killed. That meant gorging themselves, and ultimately was counterproductive.

When blood banks had come around, he had welcomed the change. Of course, preserved blood wasn't even remotely as tasty as fresh one directly off from the artery, but a discreet arrangement could be made. It removed the need for the hunt and the connected risk to be noticed and consequently have to move. Molly had been very useful as a dealer – she had the connections and was 'happy' to help in more ways than one (obviously, he was referring to the body parts for experiments, not anything untoward). Well, he said 'happy' because to be honest, he'd exerted full thrall on her. He just didn't want to risk a no. And now he had a very helpful but annoyingly smitten associate. He regretted that – but not enough to risk trying (if it was even possible) to un-thrall her and face her wrath.

But John…oh, John's blood would be _delicious_. He'd never tasted it – couldn't make himself taste it – but he knew. He could _feel_ it, thrumming, hot and sweet and often emanating the mouthwatering tang of addicting adrenaline… He was continuously conscious of the enticing blood flow of every human he encountered, but no one else had tested his self-control as John routinely did. He wouldn't be able to express it coherently, but he knew that John Watson was special. John was his destiny.

He might look like an asshole, for ignoring his partner in crime-fighting when said partner got hurt in one of their skirmishes, but do you have any idea how much discipline he needed not to jump him when John's lovely blood was exposed? Ignoring was the best he could do.

The sleuth needed to keep some measure of distance from his amazing, perfect flatmate (yeah, better call him flatmate, it helped minutely). Which led to the "I don't even realize you're gone, that's how unremarkable you are" pretence. Of course, Sherlock _was_ aware of the doctor's coming and goings. If anything, he was hyperaware of them – he could feel his blogger's presence within his throat, with every cell in his body responding to the other's company like tiny soldiers hearing their trumpets' call. (Yes, the comparison might be a bit ridiculous, but it was fitting – Sherlock had always had a thing for soldiers after all, even back when he was only a human).

If a tempting meal was all the blond doctor represented to the vampire, things would have been easy. He could ignore the siren call of blood, with enough concentration. He'd learned it long ago. The sleuth was actually sincere stating to his blogger how meals only slowed him down (one small truth he could let slip – any sliver of truth made him feel better), but he could fast from his own new nourishment too. You couldn't exactly make a detour for the nearest blood bank when pursuing a murderer…and after all, hunger sharpened his senses. It was useful.

But John had to go and get under his skin…not with his smell, or the rhytm of his heart, but with his smiles, and his praise, and his bloody useless but still divine-tasting tea. Tasting of _affection_ , the detective could have sworn, and yes, he knew he was not making any sense.

Sherlock, someone help him (not God, God didn't care for undeads…maybe Mummy?), had always had an addictive personality. Once he'd met his blogger, and somehow earned – no, not earn…it was rather a serendipitous event – his fondness, he'd wanted more of it. Much more.

Feelings he thought had been forever buried with Victor's coward (no, not coward, sensible…Victor had been the reasonable one out of the two of them at the time) abandonment, more than a century and half ago, back when he was still a fully human boy, had woken up suddenly and tempestuously. Reining _these_ in had been harder than forgetting his blood thirst.

He had believed – no, hoped – that turning would have killed that part of him, and for the longest time it seemed as if he was right. Instead, faced with John's obsessive lip-licking and honest fondness and random-surfacing Captain persona (not to forget his plain, impossible to exactly pin down…John-ness) Sherlock Holmes had once again…longed. No, it was useless to lie to himself. He'd loved. Fallen in love like a teenager, indeed (then again, not many teenagers had their crushes saving their life on the first day) – as hopelessly and unreasonably.

He wanted John Watson in his bed, he wanted his random silly endearments…he wanted it all. But he couldn't. And not even because he was a vampire. There had been precedents, of course there had been with how long vampire history was. Because if his blogger was one thing, he was very very stubborn in denying everyone's assumption that they were indeed partners in all the senses of the word.

Yes, all the lip-licking left the sleuth with a very muddled brain, trying to parse mixed signals. But if his flatmate wasn't as strictly heterosexual as he liked to depict himself, it was even worse. Because it meant he didn't want to want Sherlock. Not that the consulting detective could blame him for that – he probably wouldn't want himself too, if given the choice.

It all twisted and grew and just plain _ached_ (but oh, that was too mild a word) until he thought that he would self-destruct if he went on with lips sealed and so many words - so many _feelings –_ burning inside of him. A myriad of events had happened since their fateful meeting, including Mary Liar Watson going back to the true father of her child. Not David, but a former colleague of hers whom Sherlock had apparently missed when getting rid of Moriarty's web. Now both men were back in Baker Street and slowly easing into the old happiness. Though it was shadowed with by too much past and secrets. The sleuth was certain that his blogger felt the malaise of it too.

You'd think now was very much not the time to be daring – to confess all old sins and arcana – but the prospect of pretending (acting like he was not what he was – acting like he didn't feel what he felt) for another good 70 years – at least so Sherlock hoped – was suddenly so daunting that he couldn't stand it anymore.

If he were an old vampire, turned when Britain was under emperor Adrian's rule, he would probably feel like John's lifetime was little more than the blink of an eye, and manage to shut himself up. But, in undead-life terms, he was still a child. Some of the oldest would consider him barely a toddler, really. A notion that actually might not surprise his flatmate as much as one thought, if revealed. More than once the sleuth got the distinct impression that, despite not having lived through millennia, John felt exactly the same about him.

For once, Sherlock did not immediately follow his whim. After all, it wouldn't be only his own secret he would divulge. Once he explained when he was turned, even Anderson would have started wondering about some things, after all. John all the more. And the detective would point out his actual age, why wouldn't he, John deserved to know that much – he deserved to know it all…and if he choose to leave, then…well, there were ways Sherlock could actually kill himself and succeed.

It wasn't much of a plan B, admittedly, but he'd never felt so out of his own control. Not in his life, and not in his undeadness. See, he was even inventing words – and ugly ones – that's how upset he was.

Consultations were held, battles fought. Well, not literal ones – Mummy wouldn't allow that – but really, his brother could be so unreasonably cautious. If John was anything, he was kind. Even if he got spooked – even if he left Sherlock, and in so doing destroyed him – he would not try to expose and hunt everyone down.

"Unless he thought he would be saving the country by the dark powers holding it hostage…" Mycroft objected, frowning.

"Dark power? You? I think you might be overestimating how much you scare John. I told him how you mourned when your favourite bakery burned down," the detective joked, though he was rather desperate to gain consent for his planned disclosure.

"Sherlock!" his elder brother hissed, outraged.

"Well, you did tell him about my piracy dreams," the sleuth pointed out. As if such a breach of confidence could be repaid by anything less, really. Mycroft should have expected that. "And anyway, Mummy did the same." He pouted.

"She was an adult, smart and confident that if things went wrong she could have him sectioned. You would have to ask me for that, and I am frankly tired of cleaning up your messes, little brother," the British government spit back, crossing his arms in displeasure.

"Don't you _dare_ ," the consulting detective growled, his dark voice a good octave below even his usual baritone. Nothing should happen to John, no matter how he reacted to the truth. Family ties with one's sire and 'brothers' were taken very seriously in vampire culture, even more so than in contemporary human societies. But Sherlock was ready to forget any precept that had been hammered into him in the last century or so, and start a single-man war against everyone who would have dared to so much as suggest to hurt John Watson in any way.

"Relax," Mycroft prompted, conscious of the fight brewing. Mummy wouldn't like that.

In the end, as always in matter of importance, it was their sire who ultimately chose. She _did_ take the very same risk, as her younger had mentioned, and the happiness of her children – if not by womb –was indeed the only thing she cared for. Hence why Mummy consented to Sherlock's mad plan.

"Am I the only sane creature left in the world?" Mycroft grumbled when he heard of this, but caved in. What else could he do, outnumbered as he was?

"Someday you'll understand, Mike, and for your happiness, I pray it is soon," Mummy replied, sighing.

"Mycroft," he insisted, grouchy. They weren't actually related, though he did owe his continued survival to her, and for this he was properly grateful. The least he could expect was a modicum of respect from his…acquaintance.

"Of course, Mycroft dear," she conceded. Really, what was wrong with the boy? She suspected that he'd not been hugged enough as a child – an actual, alive human child – but she wasn't there at the time, and however many powers vampires possessed, time travel was not one of them. Otherwise she would go back and cuddle her now-son silly.

With his sire's permission, Sherlock was now overeager to come clear. Confessions – so many confessions, about a plethora of subjects – clogged his throat, and he almost blurted it all out the first moment he laid eyes on John after coming back from his family reunion.

But the doctor would have him sectioned if he did not offer proof, and since he had already decided to explain secrets that would involve having a serious talk about his relatives, he could as well use a 'show, don't tell' technique. One that would ensure he had Mummy's support if his blogger blew up like a misused pressure cooker.

Which is why, somehow, after a few feverish texts, the consulting detective ended up inviting his best friend home for Easter.

"As long as you don't drug anyone this time," John quipped, forcing himself to be light-hearted when the last time he'd met Sherlock's family had ended in such a spectacular cock-up. Even after everything had been resolved as happily as real life ever got, he still couldn't help but think that the sleuth should have let _him_ shoot the slimy blackmailer.

"I promise," the detective had assured, earnestly. "We owe you a happy celebration, John." He still would ruin it – traumatize John forever, possibly – but fortified by dad's example the young vampire held a tremulous hope that made him daring. And after almost losing John so many times, and somehow always finding his way back to him, and never being forsaken, not entirely, Sherlock's patience for subterfuge had definitely run out. He would lose John or have John – once and for all.

In the end, the much-awaited disclosure (and much planned, Mycroft had insisted for lending his input despite it being unsought) was simple. When Sherlock and John arrived to the former's home, in the late afternoon of Easter (Sherlock was the one who scheduled their trip's timing), dinner was not ready yet.

At Mummy's behest, they all settled to have an aperitif. With red wine. Or so it seemed. It took John only a glance to determine that, while his own and Mr. Holmes' drinks were indeed wine, and a fine year at that, Mummy, Mycroft and Sherlock were not having the same. He glared at his flatmate, murmuring, "I know I said no drugs, but that does not mean you have leave for any other kind of experiments."

"I am not carrying out any," the sleuth stated, taking another dainty sip from his glass.

"Look, Mycroft, Mrs. Holmes," the doctor said, loudly now.

"Call me Mummy," the matriarch interjected, in a kind but stern tone.

"Just stop drinking," the blogger went on, as if no interruption had been made. "I don't know how this madman got you to join his scheme, but whatever it is, I can probably tell him what he wants to know without need for actual trials. And one thing I bet he didn't reseach is that blood has one deeply annoying side effect when drunk beyond a tiny quantity. It is a hemetic, and I don't think any of you fancies spending tonight locked in the bathroom trowing up." His thunderous face showed clearly that, given his role of physician in attendance, he did not look forward to spending the night helping out people mad enough to go along with his insane flatmate's blood-drinking schemes either.

"He noticed," Mrs. Holmes…errr, Mummy, stated, approval in her voice. Sherlock was looking at him beaming.

"I am a doctor. A former army doctor. Believe me, I know blood when I see it," John replied firmly. Had this been a test? Only a tiny muscle tick betrayed his deep annoyance.

The sleuth was somehow disappointed by John not 'pulling rank' and showing off all his titles and the whole curriculum vitae as he tended to do when his competence was doubted, but he supposed that this was a softer version intended as courtesy to his family.

Mycroft reacted to the whole fuss by taking a larger sip from his glass of blood, ending with a sigh of pure relish. If all hell was going to break lose soon, he was going to end his meal in peace before, thank you very much. He still maintained that this was a harebrained idea.

"Out of everyone, I thought you'd be the least eager to get sick, Mycroft," the doctor commented, rolling his eyes. Did they not believe him? He had a medical degree, plus field experience, and he was bloody (ah!) tired of being dismissed.

The elder Holmes brother did not deign him of an answer. Instead, it was Sherlock who murmured, "You lack some relevant data, John," and afterwards, took from his coat's pocket a wooden stake and handed it to him.

The blogger only huffed, accepting it. "Really, Sherlock? It's neither April's Fool Day nor Halloween, so why the vampire joke?"

"Because it's not a joke," the sleuth replied simply. "Which is the reason why you don't have to worry about us getting sick from our drinks, as well as the rationale for Dad not joining in 'the joke', if it had been one. He's actually different from us."

"I am pretty sure I saw you go about your business under the sun. And you didn't burst in flames or, God forbid, sparkle," John groaned. His friend should have enough sense not to push this senseless act too far.

That last word made Sherlock frown (figures that he wouldn't know Twilight), but he objected flatly, "Illnesses that would have killed you a hundred years ago now will not worry you at all. Do you really think that while humans are capable of that vampires, with all the time they had on their hands, would not work to get rid of their own vulnerabilities? We were humans once. We have at least as much survival instinct. That sunlight info is rather…outdated, I'm afraid. Which is why I gave you the stake. Being impaled through the heart is something that we have not learned to shrug off yet, and I know you aim is true enough, should you feel the need to rid the world of me."

"I thought you told me once that the best lies are the less detailed, but it seems like you've gone through a lot of useless worldbuilding here," the blogger stated, trying hard to hold onto his sanity. Really, his friend should have caught up by now that this joke wasn't as fun as he thought.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" the sleuth blurted out, exasperated by his beloved's stubborn denial. If he had to prove himself, he would. He would do what he had sworn to himself to never do, and maybe then John would believe.

He bit John. On the right wrist, it wouldn't do to go for the charotid, the doctor needed to see the result for himself. A lightning quick pounce, just a few drops of warm, heavenly nectar down his throat, and with a quick lick to help healing, he forced himself to let go. It had been uncouth, all of it, and mummy glared sternly at him, but he refused to be cowed into feeling guilty. He needed to get his point across.

John yelped loudly, and then exclaimed, "You fucking bit me, you madman!"

Sherlock didn't reply, just licked sensously his still elongated (aching to feed as nature intended), red-tinted canines. This was the moment John would kill him – or accept him.

The doctor jumped up from his seat, looking rather wild, but – everyone noticed – not grasping his stake. He just moved to the center of the room, putting some space between himself and a vampire who'd decided he suddenly looked like a tasteful morsel.

Everyone in the room tensed, awaiting his further reaction. Whatever his little brother thought, Mycroft was determined to make sure the man never saw the light of day, much less blog again, if he responded violently or otherwise unfavourably.

"So you weren't lying," John acknowledged, hurt arm held close to his chest and glancing at the other predators in the room, trying to seize up in how much danger he was.

"Told you," the sleuth replied simply, apparently unconcerned even if he was terrified of what could happen now. But John had always accepted what others screamed "Freak"at. Don't let him break pattern today.

"Will you bite me again?" the blond asked sternly, his captain persona coming to the front.

"Not without your consent," the consulting detective assured, one quick look at his parents to stop himself to react with too much…enthusiasm to a commanding John.

"Do you want to?" was the doctor's next question.

"I have always wanted to, and if you had just taken my word for it, I wouldn't have today either," Sherlock replied simply. Truth. He'd come here promising himself to confess truths, and he wouldn't back down from that resolution now.

"Oh great, so it's once again my fault!" John ranted, his voice an enraged growl, before he took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. There were more questions to ask. "How do you feed?"

"Molly is kind enough to deliver not only body parts for experiments, but blood units, too. I do not need to bite anyone I do not choose to, these days. Like most people, once you found the organs you never looked further to find the blood in the fridge, too," the detective explained, with a little smirk.

"So were the bloody thumbs and head and all the rest a cover?" his blogger asked, more annoyed than enraged now. All to stop him from finding a couple of blood bags?

The sleuth actually sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous. You've seen me experiment. I need some way to occupy myself, John," he replied.

"You said these days," his flatmate echoed. Quick on the uptake. Really pretty damn smart, his John. "How many people have you killed before blood units came about? I am guessing you are older than that."

"I am. Not older than transfusions, but older than safe ones, and certainly older than blood banks. And how many people donating blood have you killed, doctor? It does not make sense to kill our victim. We can't go back for another meal that way. And really, I've never been the kind to gorge myself," the youngest vampire explained haughtily.

The doctor huffed a laugh. "No, you're not." The Holmes family relaxed minutely. That was a good sign. "So you were literal saying food slowed you down," John added, smiling.

Sherlock only nodded.

The blogger went back to his seat, by his flatmate's side. "Not that I am not glad that you told me the truth, but…why now? I mean, we lived together without much of a fuss, I was happy with what we had, for one, not getting suspicious or anything. So why bring it up?" he queried simply.

"I don't like lying, even if it is paramount to obtaining my quiet life." Sherlock couldn't help a little smirk at his own last words. The life he seeked was all but quiet – but he didn't want nobody to get in the way of his endeavours, whether they were investigations, experiments or nightly concertos. A shared look, and John chuckled with him. "I do like lying to you even less," the sleuth concluded.

"It still doesn't explain why now. I mean, what is it? Have you suddenly decided that you want to bite me, after all, and if you want my consent, you obviously had to point out why you would be doing it? Or is there something else?" the doctor pressed on, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"I would love to feed from you, if you acquiesced. I would not take much, and I would not even necessarily stop using blood units. It would be more like…a treat. A reward. I hope you believe me when I say I would not ever hurt you unnecessarily, or incapacitate you," the detective replied eagerly. Once again, answering part of the question, but not the point of it. Because the point of it required another confession – one even scarier and potentially more destructive than what he had divulged. He meant to say it, he really meant. He just needed…a few moments to gain the courage to speak.

His blogger nodded, accepting the assurance. Before their conversation could go on, though – after a look at the one whom he'd accepted as his 'younger son', never mind that no blood ties existed between them or their actual age difference – Dad Holmes rose from his chair and queried quietly, "Can I talk to you a second, John? In private."

The doctor was startled out of focusing on his flatmate, and stared at the man as if he'd just remembered his presence, before agreeing.

Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to object, but closed it without saying a word. The kind but intent expression on his so-called father's face told him the man was acting with his best interest in mind.

John was brought to the upper floor, in a room Mr. Holmes called his study. "Not that they won't be able to hear what I tell you, if they want, supernaturally enhanced senses and all that…but I like the principle of having privacy. Before you go on discussing your life with my son, I thought I should let you know a few things – from the perspective of someone who is like you. At least, I think you are," the man explained quietly.

"Normal, you mean. You weren't drinking blood," the doctor acknowledged, taking the offered seat. He shouldn't feel more on edge now than down there, with three bloodsuckers surrounding him. But he knew both Sherlock and Mycroft – though clearly not as well as he'd thought – while Mr. Holmes was barely an acquaintance, and no matter how harmless he looked, he *was* living with a potentially lethal creature on a daily basis. Then again, weren't normal humans potentially lethal on their own right? John should know. He'd been a soldier, for God's sake!

"I mean smitten with a genius, unique, might-as-well be immortal for all their weaknesses creature," the old man corrected.

The doctor blushed. It was that obvious, was it? Oh God, then Mycroft and Sherlock surely knew – but if the sleuth knew, why hadn't he mentioned? Not wanting to let him down?

Or… "As my youngest uses to say, your thinking is way too loud," Mr. Holmes pointed out, smiling.

"He's not your son – not really," John blurted out at that. Anything to cover what he was actually thinking.

The glare he received would have been enough to make lesser men cower. "We might not be biologically related, and not even have the right age difference for me to actually be his dad. But I do care for him, deeply, and God knows he needs some sane parenting. You will do me the favour not to put into doubt this family's ties, young man. Don't make me rethink the good opinion I have of you."

"Sorry sir," the doctor replied automatically. He might be in more trouble with the kind-looking man that with the pack of supernatural creatures downstairs, he started to suspect. "I didn't mean to offend. I just want to…understand."

"Oh, I think you do. And I just wanted you to know – you might imagine being a vampire's companion and…let's call it as it is, food reserve – to be dangerous, or demeaning, or any number of things. It's not. They – at least my wife's family – will never treat you like cattle, if you agree to have them feed from you. The boys might hide it well, but they care – they really care, a lot. And there's one thing you should know about Sherlock that might prove enlightening. Of course, all the rest I will leave for him to say…but I will tell you the year he was turned," Mr. Holmes explained, with a gentle, lopsided grin.

"Please do," John retorted, keen on any bit of knowledge about his friend as he has ever been. The sleuth had always been an enigmatic creature, and the vampire revelation explained many things, but not all. There were still so many secrets that the blogger would be eager to learn. Not to share them, not without Sherlock's permission – it would cause a ruckus, and and he was pretty sure Mycroft would swiftly and terribly deal with him…them, honestly…if they caused a scandal for him to cover up. Just to understand his friend better. Anyone needs someone who knows and accepts them, after all. He could be that person for the consulting detective. He wanted to be. And apparently, Sherlock wanted too, if he'd come clean.

"1895," Mr. Holmes announced solemnly, as if it was a momentous date, which would explain any quirk his son might sport.

And it could very well be true, had the doctor's notions of history not proven to be rather sketchy. "You say it like it's 1953," he huffed.

"Sorry?" the elderly man retorted. The year held no significance at all for him.

"Watson – not a relative, sadly, wish I was, probably part of why the year stuck in my head – and Crick discovered the structure of DNA in 1953," John expounded.

"Oh," Sherlock's dad laughed. "Yeah, well, 1895 is a rather well-known year of his own. In the crime and famous trials section of history books at least. But even if you don't remember that, just consider Sherlock was born around 1860 and has been brought up then. People's beliefs were rather different at the time, and even when you are a supernatural creature over a century old, it is hard for anyone to shake off the way he's been raised. Especially things that used to be for your own protection," Mr. Holmes explained.

He'd said as much as he could – if the man was as bright as his son believed him to be, he'd understand, even if he did not have time to look into the date of the Oscar Wilde trial. Personally, he was still outraged that his wife had thought the best way to protect the too-bright gay young man was to turn him into a creature that could either enthrall people into submission or kill them all too easily. But if she hadn't he wouldn't have met Sherlock, so he could rail at the unfairness of past centuries but would not criticize his wife's choices. She was a genius after all.

"Of course. It makes sense. 1800…Medicine had some rather peculiar theories then. I imagine general child-rearing would be even more insane," the doctor acknowledged. Doctors invented vibrators to deal with female hysteria. He couldn't imagine himself living in such a time. As for rude, arrogant, marvellous Sherlock? My God, it must have been a nightmare! They had no qualms about beating manners into children, did they? Not that it looked like they'd had much of a success with him. Or maybe his friend was just making up for all the strops and sulks he hadn't dared to indulge in before. The thought brought a smile to the doctor's lips. Well, some allowances had to be made. Thank God Mrs. Hudson was already spoiling the sleuth rotten, and now John would be extra tolerating with his sometimes childish friend too. Not that he'd ever been able to be too stern on Sherlock.

"Anyway, I hope you'll trust me when I say…things might not be normal ever again in your life, but there is much happiness to be found if you just allow yourself to get to know them beyond all the walls and layers they put up," Mr. Holmes concluded, smiling.

"That I already knew," the blogger replied cheekily. "I might not have known exactly how peculiar Sherlock was, but I gladly signed away my normal days when I met him. Awesome, unique days are much better."

"And of course, if you ever hurt my baby you won't have to worry about angry vampires avenging their kin – and trust me, you don't want to deal with Mycroft when he's on a mood. I might be human, and old, and never have received military training, but I can and _will_ make you regret ever being born," the elder man added, almost as an afterthought. And look and behold, it appeared that the consulting detective had inherited his terrifying, sociopathic grin from his dad rather than his inhuman mummy, or having perfected it in the last century or so to scare the crap out of people. It was a quick flash of a disturbing grimace that disappeared as soon as it dawned.

"…Good to know?" John answered hesitantly. Why did this sound so much like a father-in-law to be's standard, even expected threat? It might be transparent that he was besotted with Sherlock (and honestly, he had not yet recovered fully from _that_ shock), but the feeling was clearly not reciprocated. Was it? No, it couldn't be. Sherlock was married to his work, or maybe in love with Irene, and anyway how would it work between a common human and a vampire? (Swimmingly, if his parents were any example, but let's not dwell on that.)

"Well, since we understand each other, we might as well join the others; dinner must be about ready – unless you have some question for me?" Mr. Holmes concluded, clearly satisfied with the conversation.

"I think I will take my chances and discover the rest by myself. Though, if I could talk to you in the future…" the doctor countered, ending on a doubtful note.

"Of course. Whenever you want. Now let's go," the older man prompted.

And so it was that John found himself seated at the Holmes' dinner table. He was honestly surprised to see everyone – there was no need for them to pretend for his sake, now that he knew, and since the three vampires had already drunk…maybe not their fill, but decidedly had a nice snack earlier – and he supposed they could continue while he was chatting with Mr. Holmes, why having a human dinner?

His puzzlement must have been obvious, because Sherlock whispered in his ear, "Just because we don't _need_ something it doesn't mean that we can't _enjoy_ it," and damn it but it shouldn't have sounded so…filthy. It was a logical point, get your mind out of the gutter Watson! He managed not to shiver, but he went red to his ears.

And the positively _hungry_ glance the consulting detective threw his way didn't help matters. They were with the whole family! I

gnore him. Ignore him. Ignore him. John concentrated on the meal in front of him, actually eating, despite his stomach being in knots because of everything that happened that day, and complimenting Mrs. Holmes for her awesome cuisine. You wouldn't think that a vampire would be an expert at baking or roasting, what with their own diet. But on another note, she had lived longer than anyone else in the room (he couldn't say more than anyone else in the world, because he didn't know how many ancient supernatural creatures were around) and he supposed that she would need a hobby. Math and physics were well and good, but one couldn't spend all their free time calculating.

"Are you spending the night, boys?" Mummy Holmes inquired. True, John hadn't fled yet, but that didn't mean he would not opt to.

Both flatmates nodded silently. Sherlock repressed a sigh of relief. True, dad would have his best interest at heart, but he'd still been scared when John had followed him. Much like his love, Mr. Holmes looked a harmless cinnamon roll, but he had hidden depths. What if he was the one to scare John away?

"Before retiring to our rooms, I'd like to show John the garden," the sleuth muttered. Well, he said garden, but it was more of a park, really. Like its owners' souls, most of it was hidden from the public's view.

The matriarch nodded her consent, the blogger agreed promptly, and so they started strolling among rose and lavender bushes ('Mummy's taste,' the detective muttered), towards a classically decorated pavilion that had to be at least as old as the younger vampire, if not older, hidden in the backyard.

"What did dad tell you?" Sherlock queried, taking a seat on a marble bench and inviting John with a nod to sit at his side.

"Some things apparently he felt I needed to know. But honestly, I'd rather hear things from you. What happened in 1895, Sherlock?" his blogger replied, shrugging and taking the offered seat.

"If you ask, you already know," the consulting detective quipped, voice tight.

"Besides that. Something to do with crime, your dad said. Was it the Jack the Ripper year?" the doctor hypothesized.

The vampire tzked. "No, that happened in 1888. In 1895… Oscar Wilde got jailed."

"Wait – are you gay?" John asked, flabbergasted.

"And if I was? Is this were your 'all fine' proclamations end up being lies?" the sleuth challenged, chin up and eyes aflame.

The blogger raised his hands in a placating gesture. "No, no, of course not! I said it's all fine, and I meant it, Sherlock! You can love whomever you want. I just thought…Irene…" he rambled.

"I. Never. Loved. Irene!" Sherlock declared, rolling his eyes in tolerated someone for her cleverness, and suddenly your love interest already saw you marrying her and having two undoubtedly disturbed, highly manipulative kids.

"Oh." Was that a sigh of relief? Certainly not, John would have no reason to be happy for his indifference towards the Woman. Not unless…

The detective had almost talked himself out of it, but the sheer satisfaction in his beloved's tone at his assurance that his jealousy had always been misplaced was enough to make hope awaken in his soul. Maybe he should come entirely clean, just as he'd planned.

"I did love someone else, though," he said, and his blogger looked at him sharply. Wanting to discover all his secrets, but at the same time, almost afraid to know.

Well, Sherlock was terrified too. "To be honest, I am in love with them even now," he admitted. Was John going to ask? Or maybe he didn't want to know, wanted to maintain plausible deniability? How was the sleuth supposed to know? Feelings fucked up his deductive powers.

"Someone I know?" the doctor croaked. Was he coming down with a cold? Maybe they shouldn't be out now, no matter how magnificent the sunset was.

"Intimately," the vampire purred.

"Well, if you were into women, that'd leave me with quite a list, but to be honest, I wasn't aware that you knew any of my past…well, I don't exactly have ex-boyfriends…" John rambled, after shivering at the voice of the vampire. That had to be supernatural effects into play, right? Nobody could be that enthralling naturally.

"Wait – you have former – _male_ – partners?" Sherlock growled, apparently suddenly enraged. Was the man bipolar?

"You deduced that, didn't you? But you have to tell me – when did you hook up with Sholto? Or was it someone else?" the former army captain asked.

"I never thought – you said you weren't gay – and yeah, Mary implied, but she lied. She lied all the time, so I just assumed she wanted to hurt me, so…" the sleuth's rather babbling words tapered off. He swallowed once, then queried, helpless agony in his voice, "Why not me?"

"Why not you…what?" John asked, because it couldn't be what he thought, things weren't making any sense.

"Why not pick me?" the vampire queried, and faced with his beloved's still puzzled expression, he expounded, "As a lover, John!"

"Because you said no," the doctor pointed out, very quietly, though his heart was soaring. So he wasn't imagining things earlier with Mr. Holmes' "blessing", Sherlock wanted him to…!

"I…when did I?" Now the consulting detective seemed to be the confused one. Oh, come on, he couldn't have forgotten!

"At Angelo's. During our first …stake out? Date? Night? Mr. I'm married to my work?" John reminded him, with a sad smile.

"Oh. That. I don't do casual sex, John. I've learned to be…cautious," the sleuth replied, blushing. He didn't know that vampire could blush, thought John. Would all that blood redirection make them…peckish?

Well, that made sense somehow. When for most of your life (or undeadness – was that even a word?) you could go to jail for being gay, casual hook-ups might not be the best course of action. "Yes, but I didn't know. I mean, you didn't tell me I was rushing too much or something. You said thanks but not interested. What was I even supposed to deduce from 'married to my work'? That you were asexual? Or friends with benefits with Lestrade? You said no, I stepped back," the blogger protested, shrugging. It wasn't his fault.

"You immediately denied flirting at all," the sleuth groused, as if such a misdirection was an act of lèse majesté.

"You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I didn't want you to decide we couldn't flatshare, after all, because knowing that I wanted in your pants made you uncomfortable all the time," John explained simply. Wasn't it obvious?

And then, of course, enlightening occurred. "Wait – when you said you loved someone I knew intimately, did you mean…me?" he asked, breathless and terrified of what would happen if he'd somehow misdeduced, improbable as it was.

"Of course I did, John. I have been in love with you for the longest time," the vampire breathed. There. It was out. Since John admitted to at least having lusted for him, it should be safe. True, maybe he should not have admitted to sentiment. Maybe he should have let his friend imagine that he'd finally passed the trust test and been considered worthy as a bedmate. But the words had been pressing against his tongue for so long, clogging up his throat. They slipped out before the sleuth even realized.

"Since when?" John queried in a murmur. He had to know. How much time had they wasted, because he was in wilful denial and Sherlock had been raised to be afraid of the consequences of what he was?

"I am afraid…that my heart was lost when I realized you'd killed the cabbie for me. Of course, I wasn't in any real danger. But you didn't know, and killed him to save my life. Me. You thought I was worth protecting. Even after meeting Sally, and Mycroft…you still cared for me. You chose me. How could I not fall for you? You were my knight in shining armour, John," Sherlock admitted, his voice breathy, almost lost in a dream.

"That long? And you didn't do _anything_?" Now it was John's turn to be shocked and a bit angry. Careful, he understood, habits, yes, but years had gone by…did really his beloved trust him only now?

"I did. I asked you out on a date, if you remember. And your reaction was enough to keep me quiet for the following years. It clearly was _not_ all fine, not when the prospect of a same-sex relationship involved you at least," the vampire railed. Why, he'd finally found his courage out of sheer exasperation. Continuing to pretend he _didn't_ love John was hurting him, eating him up from the inside…Whatever happened would always be better than what he'd suffered. At least they'd reach a resolution one way or another.

"I thought you were mocking me!" the blogger blurted out candidly. After all, his flatmate had already made very clear his disinterest…and that ill-fated evening had been entirely oriented to casework, hadn't it? Who would suggest an actual date to involve snooping around Chinese mafia? ...The same one that managed to sneak a romantic dinner in a stakeout, even if he then realized they were rushing too much, the blond realised suddenly. "I've been an idiot, haven't I?" he added, tone subdued and shaking his head at his own idiocy.

"Practically everyone is," the sleuth replied, deliberately quoting himself, with a fond smile dancing on his lips.

"But you don't want everyone," John asked. Just a confirmation. Sometimes you needed one.

"Certainly not," the consulting detective rumbled.

"Look, I never asked the whole plan, so I am not sure if you planned to stay only tonight, or some days, even, but…can we go back home, despite what we told your parents? Because the things I want to do to and with you I'd rather not act out with your family around. Especially because most of your family has bloody vampire super-enhanced senses, even if your dad seemed to imply you can turn them off," his love pleaded eagerly.

"We can certainly go – after we say goodbye. Also, I think you should recover the stake you so carelessly discarded," Sherlock agreed, adding the last sentence with apparent nonchalance.

"Uh? Why would I? I mean, I love you and you love me and we're going home to make love, so why would I need a deadly weapon? You're not making sense, honeybee."

"Just in case," the sleuth mutters, not looking at him.

"Just in case what? Do I have to expect being attacked by others of your species? Do you have enemies you've forgotten to mention, love?" John queried, raising an eyebrow. He was rather liking repeating the word 'love' as often as he could, and Sherlock, nevermind how harshly he usually hated repetition, had not chided him for his diminished vocabulary. Yet.

The young vampire snorted. Loudly. "As if anyone would dare. They'd have Mummy, Mycroft, and me to contend with before anyone could touch you, John," he declared passionately, before letting his voice wither to a whisper. "No, it is…for me. You know, in case you stop loving me someday. Which, with your relationships' usual record, is more than probable. If you just break up with me I might go insane, John. Best to clean up the situation with a well aimed stake. You are a soldier and a doctor. You know where to hammer it."

The doctor could only sigh at that. How could the genius be so blind? "My relationships all lasted so few days because I was madly in love with you, Sherlock, and even the most foolish woman cottoned on to that quickly enough. You were always my priority, love. Always. And you will still be now. I got you, I won't ever let you go. I swear. Let's say goodbye, if we need to, but I certainly will not touch that ugly stake with a ten feet pole. I don't want to lose you ever again. Much less be the one causing your…"

John couldn't end that sentence, throat closing on a sob, because he thought he had – he thought he had for so long, because he'd said 'you machine' and come back to…you know. If he'd been better, more even-tempered, if he'd _believed in Sherlock Holmes_ , trusted that he had a reason, nothing would have happened. He wouldn't have let it happen.

"You _didn't_ , John," the sleuth replied, and his mind-reading abilities (how much of that was deduction, and how much some unnamed superpower?) were comforting and annoying at the same time. "I'm sorry I asked that of you." Sorry, sorry, sorry, sometimes it looked like that was the only word of the whole English language that the consulting detective would be destined to repeat until the end of time. The look in his beloved's eyes told Sherlock that John didn't want to hear yet another sorry. He wanted to have his mind taken off the awful events they dared not mention anymore.

"You know what, fuck saying goodbye to my relatives, they'll understand. Let's get home, John. You promised to make love to me."

And his blogger finally, blessedly giggled, because Sherlock almost never swore (how old-fashioned of him) and hearing him say 'fuck' felt odd and somehow ridiculous. He let himself be dragged back to the car. They sneaked around the side of the house, bowing to keep out of sight of the lit windows because again, fuck, the vampires could probably hear them pattering on the grass from a mile away, but it was good to pretend they were teens dashing away from watchful parents to go make out.

"It'll take us more than an hour to get back home. Your family lives in the back-end of nowhere," John complained, as soon as they left. "I don't want to wait that long."

Sherlock didn't point out that he was the one who hadn't wanted to defile his vampiric-nonage room. John had just had his life going entirely topsy-turvy, yet _again_ , and he was entitled to not knowing how to react. God knew that adapting took time. He didn't even mention that such a choice was obvious, what with a family where only one of the members ever consistently grew old. What would the neighbours say if they had some? He just said, "We can take a room somewhere midway. We'll put it on Mycroft's card. That'll teach him."

John grinned and did his best not to distract his love while driving. Vampires might be near indestructible, but if they had an accident because they were too busy making out while on the wheel, John would not be guaranteed to come unscathed out of it.

Luckily, fifteen minutes later they found a nice inn, and managed to check in without scandalizing anyone with PDAs, even if they were both tempted to. True, Sherlock could wipe the mind of the people seeing them afterwards, but that was decidedly too much bother.

Once they got inside their room, though, there was no keeping their hands off each other. They kissed right against the door, swallowing each other's moans. From there, they stumbled to the bed, and John started undressing his companion – beloved – _his Sherlock_ , the blogger's fuzzy brain settled on. The sleuth wanted to wax poetry over how close they finally were, how he could taste the desire, drown in the sheer beat of John's blood. It seemed as if he could feel it through all his whole body at once, like swimming in the ocean. He would have if all words hadn't suddenly escaped him, but for his lover's name.

He let John take the initiative, afraid, because it was so long that he hadn't dared to touch another body, and he wasn't a vampire the last time he indulged in carnal pleasures, and what if he accidentally hurt John. He'd never forgive himself for it.

The blogger undressed himself quickly, but took his time doing the same to his lover. He kissed every unveiled inch of pale skin, licking and nipping playfully at surprisingly cool flesh (though he should have expected it, with his newfound knowledge), drawing new and delightful sounds from Sherlock, breathy moans and deep, loud growls. The fact that his love was so vocal made him very relieved that they did not remain at the Holmes' mansion. Even the human dad would have undoubtedly heard them, to John's eternal embarrassment.

After a while, the vampire decided to forget his fears, because it was only polite to reciprocate when being bestowed with this much pleasure. He was slow and careful, but he left avid hands wander the expanse of his lover's chest. He gently plucked nipples into hardness, and stilled for a moment, right hand against a quickly beating heart, just enjoying it. It was a heady sensation. With his heightened senses, it was almost if each throb reverberated through his hand and arm till his very core. If before he was floating in the ocean, now he felt like being trapped in an earthquake of the senses. He unconsciously licked his lips, and his lover shivered.

Sherlock pulled up for more open-mouthed kisses John, who was now busy zeroing on his intimate parts. The sleuth was eager, oh so much, but suddenly shy to go through with actual sex. After more than a century of abstinence, it was understandable.

Feeling his lover relax during the thorough snogging, the doctor kept caressing him but moved southward again. He was a man on a mission, after all. To make love to the most beautiful creature ever born. When a hungry mouth – the vampire knew all about hunger, and the glorious feeling of the first mouthful – closed against the pale-but-somehow erect cock (undead reproductive physiology wasn't something either man had ever studied), Sherlock once again moaned, a wordless, loud and otherworldly sound.

The blond petted gently hips that threatened to rise and impale him further on the wonderful prick. He didn't fancy choking, thank you very much.

John carefully took some more in, sucking and humming gently around his prize. With his lover thouroughly distracted, he took some lube, which the inn courteously provided (had his beloved requested it? John's head had been somehow wandering while they secured a room), and – very gently – breached him. He needed sex now. He'd been longing after his preternatural flatmate for bloody years.

Apparently, finding the secret place inside his lover (thank you, anathomy lessons!) turned him wild. Before John had managed to make sense of what was happening, he'd been removed from the very tasty morsel in his mouth, turned on his back and a live-wire tense Sherlock was pleading, "Oh God oh God oh God! Let me ride you, please!"

All fears, worries and uncertainties had flown out the window at the once so well known pleasure. Sherlock needed sex and he needed it now, and this way he'd get to control things somehow. If he had to do the work, he needed some shred of himself coherent enough to pace his movements, at least. If he let himself be played by John, however masterful his partner was, he felt in serious danger to implode and self-combust. Not that there would not be time for that, in the future, but now…now he needed a modicum of his wits about. Switching to instinct mode could prove dangerous, for both of them.

His love just grinned, a bit dazed, and nodded with enthusiasm. The sleuth smiled back, eyes alight and slightly predatory. He'd dreamed of this for so long, that actually sinking on John Watson's glorious prick felt almost like an out-of-body experience. The fact that he could feel the thud of his heartbeat through the engorged member only heightened the experience. Control. Control. He needed to give pleasure first. Unexplainably, John wanted this – ached for this too, as bad as he did. The least he could do was ensure they both gained the highest of pleasures.

John met his undulating hips with thrusts of his own, invoking hoarsely a God that the vampire had been certain had long forsaken him, but maybe not – a special grace was needed to put the perfect, accepting, loving army captain on his path, surely.

The blogger wanted to go on forever, make love to his partner until the end of time itself, caught in a loop of pleasure, giving and receiving…but that was unlikely, even with a supernatural partner. When they did come, his orgasm triggering Sherlock's, both screaming each other's names, he wondered – for a split second – if his lover would be the cuddling type. He would strongly protest if the vampire thought the stereotype of smoking just after sex was an acceptable conduct.

Instead, his beloved looked at him with hooded, silvery gleaming eyes. They'd never been so intensely glowing, and yes, of course John had tried to catalogue each shift in colour of the enchanting, versicoloured irises. "John…please…" he croaked, and he sounded positively _parched_.

"Yes?" the blogger replied, softly and so overwhelmed with love. Yes, yes, yes, anything Sherlock needed or desired, forever.

"Can I…have…a tiny…taste?" the vampire pleaded, licking his own kiss-swollen lips.

His lover did not reply aloud. He just turned his head, stretching and offering his neck. Yeah, he was bitten on the wrist before, but this was more…traditional, wasn't it?

Sherlock's eyes gleamed even more feverishly, if possible, and he asked again, "Please?" sounding uncertain and small and wasn't John being obvious enough? Or did the supernatural being's ethic require a vocal consent, to ensure he was not…rape-drinking? Did this make any sense?

"Yes, yes, of course," he assured, not moving, and he hadn't even ended his sentence that he could feel a tiny pinprick and there was a curly head attached to his neck, sucking and lapping. Somehow that seemed to build up the echo of pleasure running through his body far higher than the blond had ever experienced with other partners. John did not even think, just acted, letting one hand play with the curls, twirling and caressing.

The consulting detective kept his word, taking what couldn't be more than a couple of sips before letting go and settling in the crook of his lover's shoulder instead, with a blissed-out sigh. John kept petting him absently, marvelling at how he felt certainly boneless, but not even dizzy. He was tired, though, and at Sherlock's rumbling murmur of, "Sleep," he complied.

He woke up to ice-blue eyes staring at him and a sheepish smile. "Sherlock?" he mumbled, brain still fuzzy from slumber. "You awake?"

"Vampire, remember. Not needing sleep. And yet I could swear that I actually napped for a hour tonight. I suppose you did wear me out, love. Afterwards, I might have continued collecting data on your sleep cycle. I hope you don't find it exceptionable – it doesn't seem to have affected negatively your dreams," the consulting detective replied in a rush, forcing himself not to fidget nervously.

"I never have an opinion before the first cup of tea," John grumbled, softly. Continued sounds an odd choice for a verb, but he couldn't reason yet.

"Tea. Right. I can get that. I'm not sure it will be up to your exacting standards, but I am certain I can get you breakfast in bed. Back in a jiffy," the sleuth replied, disappearing in a flurry of hastily donned nightgown.

And, true to form, in five minutes Sherlock was back holding a tray with two cups of tea and enough food for a small army, both savoury and sweet. "I wasn't sure what you felt like eating," he mumbled, with a shrug.

John thanked him and tucked in, for once not insisting on the sleuth eating his share. It was a relief to the vampire, not having to hide how useless it was for him to burden himself with human food, but strangely, a tiny part of him mourned his beloved's nagging. It was just one more way for the doctor to show how much he cared, and he was so used to it, that the lack of it felt wrong.

The blond was more perceptive than most people credited him for – always had been – and so, just a quick look at his love was enough for him to decide to hand-feed a bite of cherry scone to his lover. After all, as the man said, the fact that he didn't need it didn't mean he couldn't appreciate it.

The soft moan of pleasure and eager licking of the proffered hand made John shiver, but he reined himself in. They were not making love again now. He wanted to get back to Baker Street and properly christen every room, wall and piece of furniture in their house.

When he was done eating, and feeding Sherlock enough to keep him entertained but not so much to weigh him down, the doctor blushed, and then bravely looked at his lover and said, "I know this was just playing for you. I guess…you'll want to have your breakfast, too." Then he bent his neck, offering himself without another word, heart beating a mile a minute because despite yesterday everything was still new, in equal parts terrifying and exciting.

The vampire's eyes flashed to silver for a moment, but then they went back to a soft teal. "No, no, I'm good. Humans might enjoy their three meals a day, but once changed, I found out that one daily meal was enough to keep me satisfied," he explained. It wouldn't do to drain John needlessly. It was bad form, Mummy would scold him if she heard of it, and an exhausted John would not be able to remain at his side if a case presented itself. Companionship definitely rated over food, no matter how delicious.

"Yesterday you dined with your family," his lover couldn't help but point out. "Enough for a meal, I would assume, even if I was chatting with your father and didn't see how much you indulged. And last night, you begged for a taste." He frowned, bemused.

"I know. But yesterday night it was just a tiny sip, and your blood was so sweet…I could practically taste the oxytocin and serotonin through your skin, and these are drugs more tempting than cocaine has ever been," the sleuth admitted, looking at the floor. Would the doctor blame him?

"So…me getting aroused and then coming makes you hungry?" John queried, trying to make sense of it all.

" _Ravenous_ , John," Sherlock confessed, voice soft.

"That's…flattering, actually. Let's go home now, though. We have a fridge to reorganise," the doctor declared.

They did get back to Baker Street. The world's only consulting detective was still reeling from the shock of actually being accepted, for what he was and what he felt. Going home would somehow seal this, prove it was not a wonderful dream he'd wake from with John still in the second room, insisting 'not his date' to all and sundry.

Not having to hide his bloodpacks underneath or behind random body parts, having it allowed next to John's food "because hey, these at least are properly sealed and labelled", was momentous. Even more so the way John grinned at him and added, "You can consider them as emergency supplies, anyway. I would be honoured to…provide, as long as I am able – I'm not exactly sure how much you need, but your dad seemed comfortable with it, so we should not have a problem."

Then Sherlock kissed him – just kissed, nothing more, but he was allowed to now, and he was going to exercise his privilege as often as he could.

And of course Lestrade had to call upon them at that moment, for a possibly five. They agreed to solve it – obviously they did, it was what they loved to do. But John whispered sultrily in his ear, "No more case-related fasting for you, mister. No human food, agreed, but remember, I know how to make you work up an appetite now…"

Sherlock repressed a groan. Erasing the wall of lies between them, and finding love and happiness, was heaven, but he might have accidentally unleashed a more rakish John Watson than he could handle. But after waiting so long, they couldn't be blamed…and he suddenly realised it was true. There would be no blame in their love. It was allowed. _It's all fine_.


End file.
